


Shiners and Shiny New Things

by angrybaby



Series: short stories to cure your worries (not really) [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Plot? What Plot?, first, jus fluff n stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 05:11:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6941251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrybaby/pseuds/angrybaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is a scrawny little punk who craves action and fighting. You could say that Bucky is the doting mother who cleans up Steve's messes. And by cleaning up, I mean hauling the other kids off Steve and sending a swift kick to their asses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miracle Baby

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first one ok

March 8, 1914

In the early hours of a cold morning, a tiny child, Steven Grant Rogers, was born in Brooklyn, New York. Some would say he was a miracle. It could be because of his size, born at a mere 2 and a half pounds and barely breathing. It could also be because of the difficulties Sarah Rogers experienced in conceiving a child. Whatever the reason, Steve was a miracle baby. His father held him so softly, softly, softly while his exhausted mother slept. 

April 6, 1917

America joins the Allies in April, 6, 1917, partaking in World War I. Steve’s father is deployed five weeks after. The day he leaves, he kisses Sarah and holds her tightly. Steve, being the curious three year old he was, questions his father. 

“Pops! Poppa! Poppa, why you gotta wear that funny outfit? Where ya goin’? You ain’t leavin’, are ya? Please don’t go, poppa, I ain’t tall enough to reach the counter yet!” he whined, gripping on to his father’s pant leg. The man smiled fondly down at Steve. Hoisting him up from his armpits, he swung Steve up onto his hip.

“Now, you be a good boy and you take care of this house, ya hear? I don’t want no mess when I get home,” he told Steve, sternly. Steve nodded his head in agreement.

“But where ya goin? I don’t want you to leave,” Steve cried as he hugged his father, breathing in the warm smell of tobacco, dirt, and smoke. 

“I gotta leave, shortstack. The country’s dependin’ on men like me to save kids like you,” the man boasted. Steve sniffled and his father pressed his lips to the boy’s temple. Brushing the soft blond hairs away from Steve’s eyes, his father looked him in the eye and winked. He put the child down, grabbed his bags, kissed Sarah one last time, and turned on his heel. Steve watched in awe as his father walked away. His mother cried.

Three months later, they received a letter. Sarah didn’t let Steve read it, even though he wouldn’t have been able to. Steve waited patiently for his father to return, but he got tired.

March 8, 1925

Steven Grant Rogers turned eleven years old on a rainy day. His mother spends half a week’s wages on pancake mix to make a cake for Steve’s birthday. He heads to school on a full belly for the first time in months. 

Steve was, in fact, a growing boy. “He’s just a late bloomer,” his mother would say when the occasional family member would pass by. It was true, Steve was a late bloomer. He was barely over four feet and was scrawny as hell. His lungs were absolutely horrid which made breathing a real task. His eyesight was also poor which wound him up in a pair of thick glasses that sat disproportionately on Steve’s thin face. Running around with the other children didn’t appeal to Steve or his health, so he spent most of his time during recesses reading books or scratching out crude drawings of imaginary things. Steve rather enjoyed the solitude. It was nice to be alone, that is, until the other boys started to take an interest in him.

“Hey! You!” sneered a boy with red hair and a face full of freckles. His hands were meaty and he was tall for a kid his age. His green eyes glinted at Steve. Steve identified the emotion as “anger”. “What’s that you got there, huh?” he jabbed, kicking at Steve’s loose drawing papers.

“S’ nothin,” Steve mumbled, shying away from the boy. The boy’s cronies laughed as the freckleface boy began to twist his foot onto Steve’s paper on the ground. Dirt and grime smudged the delicate lines on the paper, and Steve felt his heart break a little.

“My poppa’s got a word for boys like you. The kind that draw and do girl stuff,” he snarled. His eyes gleaming with anger and brutality. “You’s a queer,” he huffed. The other boys began laughing pointedly at Steve. Steve bet that they had no idea what the word meant. He ducked his head and waited patiently for the boys to pass on. But, they didn’t.

“I was talking to you,” the boy shouted. He clearly had no intention of leaving. “Did ya hear me? You’s a queer and you’re gonna rot in hell!” Okay, Steve thought, what the hell is this kid on about. Steve allowed himself to be a little angry. After all, it's his birthday and he's got to learn how to fight some day. He folded his drawings up neatly and placed them in his bag. He stood up, brushed his pants off, and looked up at the boy. Steve smiled and saw freckleface go red with anger. Then, Steve socked him in the jaw. It didn’t do much damage, Steve couldn’t even break most branches when he stepped on them. But, it caused quite the reaction. Before he knew it, the other boys were grabbing at his arms and holding him back. The flaming hair wiped his mouth and turned towards him, fist raised.

“You goddamn punk!” he yelled, landing a fat one on Steve’s cheek. He punched and punched and punched. Steve bled onto his nice white shirt. Just as the bully was about to punch Steve in the nose, a barreling force knocked him onto his back. Another boy, raven-haired, pinned freckleface down and started to beat him. The crowd lost interest in Steve, and started surrounding the other two boys. Steve held his bleeding nose, and pushed to see what was going on. A teacher had caught sight of the fiasco, of course, and started shrieking at the children to step back. In the end, the bully and Steve’s savior were pulled apart. By the ear, the teacher escorted them to the principal’s office. The crowd dissipated and Steve collected his things before rushing after the teacher.

Steve pressed his now dry nose to the glass of office window. There sat the black-haired boy, his eyes downcast. In the other room, Steve could hear the bully getting his ass handed to him by the principal. The other boy looked up, catching Steve peering through. He smiled, checked for any teachers, and moved towards the door.  
“‘Lo,” he smiled, stepping towards Steve. What is breathing, Steve thought.

“Hi. I jus’ wanted to thank you for gettin’ that guy offa me. You know I had him on the ropes, though,” Steve joked. He’d never seen this boy, why was he joking with him? Steve didn’t even know he could be funny.

“Sure ya did, kid. Hey, it’s no problem. My name’s James Barnes, but you can call me Bucky,” the boy said, holding out his hand. How oddly formal, Steve thought.

“I’m Steve Rogers,” Steve replied. He smiled back. Suddenly, the solitude Steve had grown accustomed to didn’t seem ideal to him anymore. He wanted to know this… Bucky Barnes. He could feel a tugging in the back of his throat. Must be the start of something new, Steve thought.


	2. 15th Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is very short but I am lacking in patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh i'll probably revisit this and add on

March 8, 1929

Steve celebrates his fifteenth birthday with the Barnes's. At this point, they’d become a second family to him. Bucky’s younger sister, Rebecca Barnes, was just like Bucky- stubborn, blue eyed and raven-haired, and had a mean right hook. After celebrating Steve’s birthday with a filling dinner and lots of laughter, Bucky offered to take Steve home. Steve’s mother hadn’t been able to come with them to the Barnes’s because lately, she had been really sick. After parting goodbyes, the two boys headed out into the freezing cold, their breaths suspended in the night air.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve whispered, barely audible over Bucky’s ramblings. Bucky stopped walking and turned his head to the side, a concerned expression crossing his face.

“Whatsa matter, Stevie?” he replied. Steve turned to look at him, still walking, and smile.

“Thanks for everything, Buck. I sure am lucky for ya,” Steve huffed, the cold air tightening his chest. It wasn’t often that Steve got very mushy with Bucky. It was usually just laughs, jokes, banter, and the occasional fight. But, it was very seldom that Steve ever said anything about feelings. Bucky smiled widely, his joy reaching to his eyes. He sped up and looped an arm around Steve’s neck and pulled him in for a side hug.

“Aw, hell. Why you thankin’ me for? You’re the one I should be thankin,” he laughed, his chuckles echoing off the walls. They walked like this for some times, Bucky’s arm enveloping Steve’s tiny frame and Steve smiling dopily. They rounded the last corner and walked up the steps. Steve fumbled around his pockets for the keys and swore. Bucky kicked over the brick near the door, swiped up the hidden key, and handed it to Steve. 

“Hey, you come runnin’ if you need anything else tonight, okay?” Bucky said, a more concerned tone to his voice. 

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, Buck. I think I can manage a night without you,” Steve teased. He opened the door and heard his mother’s voice calling his name out softly.

“I’m just sayin…” Bucky said.

“It’s gettin’ late, Buck.”

“Okay, kid. See you tomorrow. Oh, and Steve?” 

“What, Buck.”

“Happy Birthday.”

They smiled, stepping in for a brief hug. Steve stood by the doorway, teeth chattering, as he watched Bucky jump down the stairs and make his way home. After closing the door, he headed to his mother’s room. She lay there, breathing softly. In the pale moonlight, Steve undressed and slid into his own bed. Warm thoughts ran through his mind, making his bed feel less cold.


End file.
